Deck the Malls
by Bobcat Moran
Summary: Some Christmas stories have the characters discover the True Meaning of Christmas, with peace, joy, and fellowship with all mankind. This is not one of those stories. It's Black Friday, and there are souls to be reaped at the Woodside Mall.


_**Author's Notes:** This story was written for the 2008 Yuletide fic exchange, as a gift for Hllangel. An enormous thank you to my sister, who made a couple suggestions which improved this story tenfold._

-o-o-o-_  
_

So here I am, ten minutes to five in the morning the day after Thanksgiving, waiting in line outside the Woodside Mall, and wondering what the hell I'm doing here. Or, more accurately, what the hell everyone else is doing here. Getting up before the sun rises just to go shopping seems to take a certain mindset which I don't have. Mason doesn't have that mindset either ("D. Bontemps, five thirty a.m., Woodside Mall Java Joe's? Are you shitting me, Rube? The mall isn't even open that early, is it?"). He's currently trying to take a nap on my shoulder, and I'm trying to shove him off. Clearly he's not a morning person.

Daisy comes trotting back to us, looking satisfied. "Well, my work here is done. The crowd up front is looking pretty ugly. My money's on the guy being trampled to death."

Mason yawns hugely and then looks put out. "That's not right, people being this ridiculous about Christmas shopping. What, are they giving away plasma TVs or something?"

"I think I heard something about ten dollar gift cards," I say.

"'S not right," Mason repeats, and then tries to use Daisy as a pillow.

"Not happening," she says, pushing him over so he tilts in my direction.

"Whoa, hey," I say, taking a step back. Mason collapses into an ungraceful heap on the ground.

"That wasn't very nice," he complains as he gets up.

"Look, they're opening the doors," Daisy says. We stand back and let the crowd surge by.

-o-o-o-

At Java Joe's, I get chai, Daisy gets some sort of pumpkin spice thing, and Mason gets a latte and the soul of a girl who shortly thereafter is impaled in the chest by an exploding espresso machine. She dusts off her barista's uniform, looks at the shard of metal sticking out of her front and says, "Wow, this sucks. I really like this sweater." Then she sees her body. "Wow, this really sucks," she says. "I mean, really, really sucks. Jeez, I mean, I know Mom said that all that caffeine would stunt my growth and lead me to an early grave, but I never…" she trails off into a nervous giggle.

Mason takes her aside.

-o-o-o-

After two hours, I'm tired, my feet hurt, and if I have to listen to one more rendition of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" dribbling out of some store's sound system I will scream.

"Oh, God," Mason moans. "Can we go now? Please?"

"Georgia still has to make her nine-forty," Daisy says, referring to my post-it. "Oh, would you _look_ at these sweaters? Too cute."

"If you want to go, you can," I say. "I don't need, like, moral support or anything."

"But I don't want to be alone with this bunch. These people are crazy," Mason says. As if to emphasize his point, we're almost run over by a lady who is talking loudly on her cell phone while pushing a stroller that is overloaded to the tipping point with shopping bags. "Can we at least go somewhere that isn't playing Christmas music?"

Daisy points towards a store which has cologne and pounding bass drifting out of it. I notice everyone over the age of thirty giving it a wide berth.

Inside, it's just as crowded as it's been everywhere else, lit only enough so you can see the clothes racks, and way more noisy. The music was actually louder in the entrance than it is inside. I'm kind of impressed by how they made the store seem more obnoxious on the outside than it is on the inside. Sort of like some people I know.

"Georgia!" Daisy says, coming up to me with a knit top and practically shoving it into my arms. "You should try this on. It matches your eyes."

"How can you tell?" I ask. It's so dark in here that I can barely tell what color the top is.

"I will have you know that I have impeccable taste," she says. "And you really do need to update your wardrobe. That sweater? So last year."

"Hey, I'll have you know that this sweater is actually _two_ years old." I realize how dumb this sounds as soon as it leaves my mouth.

"Daisy, can you help me update my wardrobe?" Mason asks hopefully in what I think is one of the most awkward come-ons I've ever heard.

Daisy gives him a quick up-and-down glance. "Mmm, I think you're going to be beyond even my help."

Mason then turns to me. "At least they're not playing Christmas music here."

"Actually, I think this might be a hard rock version of 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,'" I say.

"Won't you come and guide my sleigh, won't you come and guide my sleigh, _won't you come and guide my sleigh!" _the music sings.

"Fuck, I need a drink."

-o-o-o-

By nine-thirty, I am really, really ready to leave. I have had what was probably the most awkward encounter of my life with Delores and am carrying two shopping bags full of clothing that Daisy somehow managed to talk me into buying. I'm going to return it all tomorrow. Well, almost all. That top actually did go with my eyes pretty well.

I'm just hoping that M. Dooley will be easy to find, whoever they are. The bookstore that's listed on my post-it is small, so it shouldn't be too bad, right? Wrong. The store is a chaotic mess. Water is dripping down from the ceiling, and a kid is shrieking as he jumps in a puddle that's forming on the floor. Two of the employees are dragging tarps over shelves and piling books onto some little hand cart things. The third is at the counter. She's trying to help some guy find a book which "has a black cover, kind of like leather but not. And there was something in there about Jesus."

"The Bible?" she says. "Um, our bibles are over there." She gestures towards the tarp-covered shelves and gives the huge line that's building up behind her register a frantic look.

"No, no, that wasn't it."

I glance at her nametag. "Barb K." Damn. I sometimes really wish that everyone would wear nametags. That'd make this so much easier.

Mason is talking to one of the tarp guys, who's hauled out a ladder and is leaning over to pull books off of a really high shelf. He's setting them down on some wire mesh thing that's overhanging the shelves that run around the perimeter of the store. "…and I guess the espresso machine was hooked up to the water line, and someone forgot to shut it off," Tarp Guy is saying.

I'm only half-paying attention to what he says, because I've spotted a graveling lurking around the mesh, loosening screws. Is Tarp Guy who I'm supposed to be looking for? I squint up and look at his nametag. "Matt D." I'm trying to figure out a way to make sure, when Register Gal calls out, "Hey, Dunham, could you grab a copy of 'Lamb' for this gentleman here?

"Sure thing," Tarp Guy says. Shit, it's not him. And it's almost nine-forty.

Just then, the puddle-jumping kid runs by, followed by his mom, yelling, "Michael Anthony Dooley, you get back here right now!" Startled, I turn around and brush my hand against Michael Anthony Dooley just as he runs by. Tarp Guy sets down a stack of books big enough to be used as blunt weapons on the mesh before heading down the ladder. The mesh creaks alarmingly, and then, just as Michael Anthony Dooley darts behind the ladder, it gives away.

The kid gets a copy of "War and Peace: The Unabridged Version" to the head, followed by a small avalanche of hardcovers. His mom screams and starts pulling books off of him.

The kid seems pretty unfazed by it, up until he goes into this place filled with giant, glowing robots riding dinosaurs or something. I don't know. I've learned not to think too hard about people's afterlifes.

As Giant Glowing Robot World fades, Mason asks, "_Now_ can we go? Please? I think I've been traumatized for life by this experience."


End file.
